


Tortillas

by BlueBioluminescence



Category: Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Latino Matt Murdock, Native American Foggy Nelson, art included, cultural loss and reconnection, foggy is a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29717499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueBioluminescence/pseuds/BlueBioluminescence
Summary: Matt held his dads old tortilla press in his hands a tried to tell himself that his inability to remember wasn’t a punishment he deserved for not paying enough attention as a child.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20
Collections: MattFoggy Server Telephone Game Event





	Tortillas

**Author's Note:**

> This is very self indulgent as most fics regarding this kind of topic are to me...
> 
> that said this is also for the discord telephone event so if someone selects to do this piece the easier theme that inspired this is “cooking together”

Matt felt around the curved edge of the old metal, letting the familiar texture of it press into the tips of his fingers as he mapped out the bumps and bends. It was his dad's old tortilla press, a gift from his grandmother when his dad had left Mexico for the United States. Something for his dad to, apparently, remember her by. Now here was Matt, holding it reverently in his hands and, instead of remembering a grandmother he never even had the chance to meet, remembering his father instead.

Matt pulled it out often in his moments of melancholy when the memories of his father surfaced. Not the memories of him as a boxer, the noise of his fights filling the air around Matt in a way that he had not yet learned to understand, but instead memories of him as a _dad_. 

He had done his best to raise Matt, Matt knew he had, but his job hadn’t left them much time together to really be parent and child. Most of Matt’s early memories were spent at ring-side as his dad trained and fought, but in those few moments when they had had time his dad had tried to pass on what little slivers of his culture that he could. 

The tortilla press had been a part of that, and after his dad had died it had followed Matt to the orphanage and from there his dorm room at college. He hadn’t had any real way of using it at either locations, it wasn’t like the nuns had trusted him in the kitchen and dorms didn’t exactly have fully functional stoves in them. Instead it had mostly become a comfort object, something to take out and remember his dad by in times when he was feeling overwhelmed and lonely.

Then he had graduated and gotten himself an internship and with it a run-down but usable apartment: one with a fully functional kitchen that included a stove. He realized, as he unpacked his dad’s tortilla press from his meager belongings, that now that he actually had the tools to _make_ tortillas he also realized that he had no idea how to do it.

He had gripped the tortilla press tight and felt the heavy weight of it both in his hands and on his soul.

————

“I'm pretty sure most people roll them out with a rolling pin back at home. At least that’s what I’ve seen anyway.” Foggy commented as he guided Matt’s hand across to the bowl of tortilla dough that he had just finished preparing. Matt had been hesitant at first to even attempt to make tortillas again, no matter how much he had wanted to. A part of him rebelling at the idea, insisting that his inability to make them was right and justified punishment for failing to learn when he was younger, when his father was still alive and he still had a chance to learn. Punishment for taking his fathers life for granted, for thinking that he would _always_ be there to teach him these things. That he had _time-_

But Foggy, his ever reliable best friend, had agreed as soon as Matt had hesitantly mentioned the topic over their shared desk at work and had promised to come over that weekend and help him make as many tortillas as he wanted. Never mind that _Foggy_ had apparently never made tortillas from scratch before. He had still come home with Matt after mass on Sunday, bound and determined to make them some.

So, here they were and Matt couldn’t be more thankful. 

“Mom’s friend says you want each one to be about that size,” Foggy explained as he unceremoniously plopped down a kind-of-round piece of dough into Matt’s hand. Matt moved his other hand to it to feel out the size and shape of it, trying to memorize it as best he could. This piece of dough was only slightly smaller than one of those stress balls Foggy had gotten him during one finals week as a joke. It was smaller than what he remembered his dad making but, then again, Matt’s hands had also been so much smaller back then too. “And they apparently also need to sit for thirty minutes before we roll them out, or in this case squish them out?” Foggy added, sounding a little weary, “Are you sure this thing is going to work on flour tortillas?” He asked for the fifth time since they started this little attempt, “I was, like, ninety percent sure they were only for corn tortillas.”

“Pretty sure.” Matt replied, smiling, “Like, ninety percent sure.” He added, teasing as he bumped his shoulder against Foggy’s. “Dad used to make flour tortillas with it when I was a kid, though I think we need...something to keep it from sticking.” Matt frowned as he tried to remember. He grabbed a small handful of dough from the bowl that felt about the same size as the one Foggy had handed him and started to roll it between his hands to get it round. 

“I think it was probably plastic wrap.” Matt finally said, though his answer wasn’t exactly confident, “I really wish I could remember better but…” He swallowed, trying to shove away at the dark feeling building inside of him once more, “It was a long time ago. All I can really remember is him setting everything up for me and then letting me use the press to squish everything down.” Matt explained, “We didn’t make them that often either, I don’t think my dad really ever had the time for it, but when he could…” Matt trailed off for a moment, just feeling the dough in his hands. 

“I think he did it mostly when he was feeling homesick. He used to tell me ‘Estos no son nada comparados con tus abuelas’.” He smiled a little broken. “He always promised he would take me to meet her one day when he had the money but...well.”

“I’m sorry.” Foggy said gently from next to him, his shoulder bumping Matt’s back, this time in a show of comfort and Matt shook his head to clear it from the memories. 

“It’s fine Fog,” He lied, “not much I can do about it now.”

“Ya well,” he felt Foggy shrug and he felt his heart ache at the motion,”I’m sure that doesn’t stop it from sucking. Or from hurting.” which...Foggy was right of course. Knowing there wasn't much he could do about it didn’t stop that fact from hurting him more than he could say.

“Maybe one day we can try and get you out there?” Foggy added, and Matt knew the addition was equal parts so that Matt wouldn’t have to reply to what Foggy had just said, but also a genuine and friendly offer, one that Foggy would happily follow through if Matt gave the okay. But Matt had never met his dad's side of the family, wasn’t even sure anymore if there was even anyone left to meet or connect to. And a part of him, a large part of him, was terrified to find out. He thought he might be okay if he found out that there was no one left to connect to, that didn’t scare him. The part that did though was the thought that they were still out there, somewhere, and that they simply wanted nothing to do with him. 

He could jump off buildings without so much as a flinch thanks to Stick, but here he was, unable to take the simple leap of finding his family. 

“Ya. Maybe someday.” He agreed, knowing that, even if his words weren’t a lie, that the day he tried to find his dad’s family were far far away.

————

Matt carefully placed another ball of dough into the middle of the tortilla press, using his fingers to make sure it was perfectly in the center and that the plastic wrap hadn't moved too far, before bringing the plastic-bag-wrapped top down and squishing it. The process had become routine at this point, in a way that brought back memories of doing it with his dad, fond ones this time that had slowly managed to drive away the sorrow from before. The smell of fresh tortillas that filled the air around them probably helped with that too. Even the slight charcoal smell that came along with Foggy’s first few attempts at cooking the tortillas had been familiar and Matt had managed a genuine laugh as it had pulled up long forgotten memories of his dad doing the same. Getting distracted, usually by Matt, and leaving a tortilla on the stove too long. Foggy had managed to get into a rhythm too though, and soon most of the tortillas were smelling far less of charcoal and far more like proper tortillas. 

“So I can’t promise that these are going to taste anything like your dad’s,” Foggy told him as he hears him place another tortilla in the cloth covered basket they had set up to hold them in hopes that it would keep them warm, “but we did our best so I’m pretty sure that has to count for something.” Matt reached out for another ball of dough as Foggy reached for the one Matt had just squished.

“It’s more than I’ve done in a long time.” Matt said, his hand groping around, half distracted, “so even if they are terrible it’s at least worth the experience. Besides, how bad can they be? They are tortillas.” He added and it took him a second before he realized that there were no more balls of dough to press and that they were actually _finished_ . The realization that he had actually done it, had actually managed to make tortillas, again, after all these years. That he had managed, by some miracle, to get this small part of his childhood, his culture, his _dad_ back.

“Let's save those bold statements for after we have tried them, counselor.” Foggy joked back over to him from where he was cooking that last tortilla over at the stove, oblivious to Matt’s silent crises behind him. “And if they are terrible I am writing a strongly worded letter to my moms friend.”

Matt laughed at that and it was a little wet and broken. He heard Foggy’s breath hitch and heard Foggy’s clothes rustle as he turned towards him. Matt is tempted in that moment to reach out for the basket, to feel the tortillas within it instead of just smelling them. To pick one up and taste it and sense, for himself, that he has actually done this. That this day has actually happened.

He feels Foggy’s hand on his shoulder and lets himself be turned into his embrace as he holds him tight.

—————

The last tortilla ends up burnt beyond a point of being edible, and the rest of their tortillas were maybe just a _little_ too salty, a _little_ burnt at the edges, and fluffier than Matt remembered his dad's being. But, even with all the slight imperfections, he was pretty sure they were absolutely perfect. 

End

  
  
Image description: a digital drawing to Foggy Nelson and Matt Murdock making tortillas in a small rundown apartment kitchen. Matt is depicted as a mixed Latino/Irish man. He is standing behind a kitchen counter and is working a tortilla press. There are balls of dough lined up in front of him. He is wearing round red glasses, a red shirt under a light blue jean jacket, jean pants, and a gold cross around his neck. His skin tone is darker than typically depicted with a tanned/medium brown shade and his dark red hair has a notable wave to it. The area around his eyes is heavily scared. Foggy is standing behind Matt at the stove. He is depicted as a Native American man. He is heavy-set with medium skin, dark brown/black hair and dark brown eyes. He is wearing a light blue sweater rolled up at the sleeves, dark jeans, and a cream colored apron. He has his fingers lightly touching a tortilla that is cooking on a griddle, testing if it is ready to flip. He is smiling and saying something to Matt who is smiling widely in response. On the counter beside them is a cloth-lined basket full of cooked tortillas ready to eat. 


End file.
